My friends are very bright. They teach me things all the time. I learned a new word the other day. A “Rainbow Baby” is a child born after a miscarriage. I’ve been called many things, but it turns out I’m a Rainbow Baby.
After my brother was born, my Mother conceived again. This pregnancy didn’t last; in the second term, she miscarried. Sad but undaunted, she tried again six months later. That time she conceived twins. They gave every indication of being healthy. We’re they boys; she would name them John and Allen, after my uncles. Were they girls, she would call them Joreine and Evelyn, after my aunts.
The pregnancy was strong and healthy. Soon Mother’s little family would double in size. One night, barely into the third trimester, she woke up at our tiny home on Northside Drive with terrible cramps. Expecting one of the many stomach ailments that come with pregnancy, she ran to the bathroom, where, after a few painful moments, she miscarried the twins into the toilet. She saw them just long enough to know they were boys.
Heartbroken, Mother resolved herself to a life with only two children. My father, and her Mother, tried to console her, but little would. My father’s job became much more complicated and busier with my Uncle, the paterfamilias, very ill and probably dying.
As sometimes happens with couples, as my father became distracted and my Mother nurtured the emotional wounds from losing three children in two pregnancies, intimacy between them became rare. There were pretty emotional severe wounds that had to heal.
Spending a few days at the Broadwater Beach Hotel in Biloxi for the National School Supply and Equipment Association convention hosted by my Uncle’s company, my father’s job became much more visible, as my Uncle died the February before.
A young couple with recent new responsibilities, they drove to Biloxi with news of Russian missiles in Cuba pointed at us on the radio. Mississippi was well within striking distance of one of these missiles. The president said not to be afraid, but everyone was. It would be another week before he resolved the crisis. With imminent death in the air, one night after the NSSEA awards dinner, I was conceived in a Broadwater Beach bungalow in the salty air of Biloxi. I suppose not knowing how many tomorrows there would be brought them together for the first time since the twins died.
After Christmas, my Mother told my father that she was pregnant again. Understandably gun shy after two miscarriages, she spent double the usual time at the doctor. As the young Jim Campbell moved into his new position as the new paterfamilias, the family held their breath, hoping the new baby would be healthy.
Into the first trimester, the doctor reported a solid and healthy pregnancy. If I were a girl, they’d name me Martha, after my Mother. If I were a boy, they’d call me John-Allen, after my uncles, a combination of what was to be the twins’ names. Besides my Uncle’s death, there wasn’t much in life to worry about. Kennedy averted the Russian missiles. There was agitation among the Africans in the South, but it had yet to come to a full boil. Things were good. By the Spring, Mother decided that if the new baby were a boy, she’d name it Alexander Boyd, after my late Uncle.
On into the second trimester, the doctor expected to hear a fetal heartbeat but couldn’t always. Some days there would be a heartbeat, and some days there wouldn’t be. This was long before anything like an ultrasound. Fetal heartbeats were detected by putting a cold stethoscope on the Mother’s belly. He said not to worry about it. I was probably in a position where it was difficult to detect.
Into the third trimester, a heartbeat was detectable but still not reliable. The doctor could hear it; but some days, he couldn’t. My parents, especially my Mother, feared the worst.
Starting the third trimester, my Mother began finding blood spots in her pants. Uncertain about what was causing the spots, her doctor prescribed absolute bed rest.
Still, it was challenging to detect a consistent fetal heartbeat. The doctor told Mother not to worry, but she felt he wasn’t telling her the truth. Carter O’Ferral told her I might be in an unusual position, but I might also have an underdeveloped heart. This was difficult news to hear, but she appreciated the honesty. Her Mother and a recently hired family nurse and housekeeper tended to my Mother in her bed.
Ten days before my due date, the doctor told Daddy to pack a bag, and Mother was moved into a room at Baptist Hospital. St. Dominics and University weren’t delivering babies yet. Most people born in Jackson in those days were born in the same ward.
While my father packed a bag to take his wife to the hospital. Up in the delta, Bryon De la Beckwith was packing a rifle and heading to a spot in Jackson, near where my Mother was headed. My father was hoping to bring a life into the world. De la Beckwith was planning to take one out.
On June twelfth, with my Mother spending the last days of her pregnancy in the hospital, my father received a call that Medgar Evers, the Civil Rights worker, was killed. Jackson was a tinderbox. Martin Luther King Jr. was told that Mississippi was too volatile for him to speak there. Medgar Evers lived here, but on June twelfth, he lived no more.
No one knew how Jackson would respond to the assassination. There would be several more assassinations in the days to come, but in June 1963, Evers was the first. Police and sheriff’s deputies from the surrounding counties moved into Jackson in case of a riot. My brothers and my Mother’s Mother moved in with my father’s parents on St. Ann Street. My father slept in a chair in my Mother’s hospital room. Everyone held their breath. While the world counted out the chances of Mississippi bursting into riots, my family counted out the chances I would be born alive.
Four days later, Mother began to show signs of contractions. Again, no heartbeat was detected, but the baby was definitely moving. The specter of a baby with heart problems was very real. As the contractions weren’t very close together, the doctor said I wouldn’t be born for another day yet. My father and Jack Flood decided to walk over to Primos and get hamburgers in a sack. The doctor assured them nothing would happen while they were gone.
When they slapped the red hamburger meat on the griddle at Primos, Mother’s contractions suddenly started coming very close together. Without cellphones to tell them to come back, my father had no way of knowing that; while he ate his hamburger, my head was crowning, and my Mother held her breath, hoping for a healthy baby.
Daddy and Dr. Flood returned to find my Mother exhausted in her bed while the nurses cleaned the bright red screaming baby. A baby with a strong, steady heartbeat. The long three years were over, and the loss of three babies before they were born ended with a healthy live birth.
They call people like me “Rainbow Babies” because after destroying the world, God gave us the rainbow as a sign of new life and new hope, despite the destruction that came before. My Mother was a pretty tough person, but losing three children in two pregnancies tested her resolve.
She tried several times to explain to me what it was like when she saw the twins, my brothers, dead in the toilet, but she could never get through it. Some images can burn your soul. Were I not born healthy, she resolved herself that she wouldn’t try again. Although I was born healthy, the world soon showed signs of breaking at the seams. By November, Kennedy would be dead. Martin Luther King Jr and Bobby Kennedy went the same way in five years. I was born healthy into a world that wasn’t.
I’ve tried to educate myself on the things my Mother endured because she endured them for my sake. I can’t imagine the feeling of carrying a child, not knowing if it was alive or not, and if it were alive, would its heart be strong enough to survive? We tend to think of mothers as funny haircuts and birthday parties, but it’s so much more complicated than that.
I was a rainbow baby. Just by arriving, I marked the end of a very painful few years for my Mother. I’ve known a few women who went through this. Even though you never get to meet and know the babies that are lost, their mothers feel their loss just the same. According to the world, there were four Campbell children. According to my Mother, there were seven. We never met three of them, but I was the rainbow at the storm’s end.
